It was lacking something. He was no stranger to words but they were simply not playing out as he so ardently wished they would. Was Kydd right in suggesting he write about himself? No! Putting aside the embarrassment of exposing his inner self before the public, this was to be a work of fiction and his own experiences had no right to appear.
Wearily he got up and went down to his cabin to put the day’s work in order. The balled-up paper, the scribbled sheets, the endless crossed-out notes – he just didn’t have the heart. He sat down and let his eyes roam over the tightly packed bookshelf above his tiny desk. They were the work of authors, of course, the blessed, the favoured, the felicitous. Would he never join their august band?
As ever, his eye softened at the row of poetry volumes. The tight crafting of precise and numinous meaning from shining words had always given him satisfaction and comfort and he reached for the first and oldest, from the time of Francis Drake, a work by Sir Philip Sidney, that turbulent and gifted Elizabethan. He opened it at random.
And the words leaped out at him:
Thus, great with childe to speak, and helplesse in my throwes,
Biting my trewand pen, beating myselfe for spite,
Fool, said my Muse to me, looke in thy heart – and write!
He blinked and held his breath. A rising feeling of giddiness overwhelmed him, for that was exactly the problem and the solution! In a heightened state of mind, he felt a supernatural thrill – that down the centuries this man was speaking to him, giving of himself to deliver a fellow scribe from the thrall of stasis.
His mind cleared. He had treated the whole thing too logically, too much in the abstract. Was it possible to look into a man’s heart from a distance? To generate sympathy at arm’s length? No. But the solution was there as well.
He must look into his own heart and write about what caused pain to him, gave joy and grief, stirred his deepest emotions, caused his darker, detestable self to reign – and he could do it, for it would be a release. He could at last speak of those years of blind, youthful extravagance and meaningless existence, which had ended with the epiphany in Venice that had sent him back to confront the moral imperative which had changed his life utterly.
Yes! He’d do it! And he could see how – both passionately and as a detached observer: simply tell the tale from the outside, knowing the inside. He snatched a sheet and his hand flew over the paper.
In his regimental dress, the pipe major looked both barbaric and splendid in the massed candlelight as he passed slowly between the tables. No allowance was made for the modest enclosed space of the Castle of Good Hope’s banqueting hall and the volume of sound was visceral. Kydd revelled in it, however, for there was nothing like this sense-numbing martial wail to be found in a man-o’-war’s wardroom.
With the utmost dignity, the piper concluded his processing at the head of the table next to the mess president, General Sir David Baird, and duty done, stared fixedly ahead.
The moment hung in a heady whisky fragrance, the gold and scarlet of regimentals in rows interspersed here and there with the rich dark blue and gold of the Navy as both services joined in the tribal ritual of the loyal toast. Baird rose solemnly; with a massed scraping of chairs every officer got to his feet likewise, his glass, charged with a golden glow, held before him.
‘Gentlemen – the King.’
‘The King,’ murmured half a hundred men, some with an added, ‘God bless him.’ It produced a powerful sense of union with the country that had given them birth, now on the other side of the world but to which each and every one was bound by this common tie of allegiance.
With a rustle and occasional clink of ceremonial accoutrements, the assembly resumed their seats and conversations continued in a lively hum.
‘Your jolly good health, sir!’ It was the adjutant of the 93rd, sitting down from Kydd and the more senior officers.
‘And to yours, sir!’ Kydd called in return, raising his glass. He enjoyed attending army mess dinners with their different ways and effortless banter, not to mention the fine victuals to be had in a garrison town and, of course, their well-found cellar.
Tonight was no exception: a regimental occasion with the 71st as hosts and the rest of the military as guests in a splendid affair – but for Kydd there was a purpose and he prepared to make his move.
Next to him was the red-faced and happy Lieutenant Colonel Geoffrey McDonald, Lord of the Isles, and further towards the head of the table the firebrand Colonel Pack held forth, but for Kydd there was only one of notice that night: the brigadier general and second-in-command of the Cape Colony military, William Carr Beresford, sat some places up.
The dinner was over, the toasts made and cloths drawn, and amiable converse became general. Now was the time.
‘A right noble dinner, General Beresford, sir,’ he called genially. ‘I’ve not had better this age, I declare.’
Beresford had a reputation for stiffness, a liking for the forms, but he turned politely to Kydd and replied, ‘The victor of the Zambezi does us honour in the attending, Captain. As it happens I’ve just sent for a bottle of Malmsey of the old sort. Would you care to join me?’
As was usual at this time, a number of officers had taken the opportunity to perform what the Navy delicately alluded to as ‘easing springs’ and by their absence the hardier remaining were able to choose a more convenient seating. Kydd left his and, after a polite bow to Sir David, took the chair opposite Beresford.
‘This is most civil in you, sir,’ he said, as his glass was filled. ‘I’ve quite forgotten the taste of such after so long on this station.’
After murmured appreciations it was established that the distinguished captain in the Royal Navy by the same name was indeed Beresford’s brother John, who had been active and enterprising in the war against the French in the Caribbean, and had, as who might say, been fortunate indeed in the matter of prizes and notice.
Kydd confided that his own family was quite undistinguished, living as they did in the country near Guildford, and changed the subject – not so much out of concern that his humble origins would be discovered but more in the knowledge that this was the eldest son of the Marquess of Waterford, but one who had not succeeded to the title for he was acknowledged illegitimate.
Beresford was surprised by and professed delight to learn of Kydd’s role in the Abercromby action in Egypt and, unbending at last, detailed his own legendary dash across the desert to take the French in the rear, illustrating the route with cruet marshes and a decanter range of mountains, not forgetting a perilous defile between two forks that left no doubt as to the hazards bravely faced.
After another mutual toast, Kydd set down his glass with a sigh. ‘I do confess it, I’m taken with the entertainments commanded by your most celebrated 71st Regiment. I do wish it were in my power to conjure a like in return, but my ship – trim and graceful as she is – cannot possibly stand with a castle in the article of convenience in entertaining.’
He allowed his head to drop. Then he looked up again brightly. ‘I have an idea! Yes – it’s possible! My duty as captain must surely be to make certain those rascals of a crew do not wither in idleness while long at anchor. I’ve a mind to put to sea and exercise ’em. Sir, how would you welcome a day’s cruise in a saucy frigate whose sailors are set to every task in sea life before you? Racing up the rigging, bringing in sail high aloft, a few rounds with the great guns, boatwork . . .